


An imprint set in wax

by Nary



Category: 12th Century CE RPF, Lion in Winter (1968)
Genre: Banter, Canon Gay Relationship, Dysfunctional Relationships, Future Fic, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Negotiations, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Power Dynamics, Reunions, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philip's journey from Paris was the shorter distance, yet he arrived later, almost as dark was falling.  Richard, knowing his tactics well, refused to be goaded so easily into impatience.  "I'll wager you wish you hadn't burned the bridge at Porte Joie now," he said cheerfully by way of greeting.  "You could have been here in time for dinner.   It was splendid, by the way.  We saved you some scraps."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An imprint set in wax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feverbeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/gifts).



> Thanks to Elanya and Kaesa, my wonderful betas!

_Louviers, January 1196_

They had missed celebrating Christmas together once again, but only by a few days. The winter snow was clean and fresh, not yet melted into the muddy mess of spring, lending a deceptive veneer of tranquility to the Seine river valley. The little tributary, the Eure, was frozen hard enough to let Richard's men ride across it and enter the town of Louviers, where he and Philip had agreed to meet and see if peace could be secured between them.

In their warring back and forth across Normandy and the Vexin, they had met most recently in December, in a field near Issoudun. Richard and his army had forced their way through the lines, seized the castle, and then hemmed Philip's troops in from both sides. Forced to a stalemate, humiliated, the king of France had agreed to temporary terms of peace, to be ratified (or not) by the middle of January. The new archbishop of Rouen, Walter of Coutances, had, perhaps too eagerly and certainly too optimistically, agreed to host the warring monarchs at his manor.

Philip's journey from Paris was the shorter distance, yet he arrived later, almost as dark was falling. Richard, knowing his tactics well, refused to be goaded so easily into impatience. "I'll wager you wish you hadn't burned the bridge at Porte Joie now," he said cheerfully by way of greeting. "You could have been here in time for dinner. It was splendid, by the way. We saved you some scraps."

Philip forced a smile. "I have no interest in your table leavings."

"No? Perhaps you'll enjoy the scraps of land you're going to have left instead."

"Clumsy," he told Richard, sweeping past him up in the steps. "Even by your standards, it's heavy-handed. You used to have more finesse than that with a well-aimed barb."

"I've grown dull over the years. Too few worthy targets left. Father dead, and Geoffrey as well. John is contemptible - barely worth insulting."

"So you think to whet yourself on me," Philip said over his shoulder. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time. Sharpen away, Richard, it makes the blade slide in more easily."

Richard's smile grew tighter. "I've already claimed the upper chamber. You'll have to make do with the lower one."

"Oh Richard," Philip smiled back, almost fondly, "you always have to be on top, don't you."

To that, the king of England only glowered, and the king of France was able to get away with the last word.

***

Their negotiations, already hashed out on the battlefield as well as verbally afterwards, were less difficult than either of them had feared. One brash fool from the French court proposed settling things with a duel of five champions to a side, but was hastily shushed when Richard said he would gladly agree to such a challenge - provided he and Philip were two of the combatants. In the end, Richard gave up the Vexin, but he held all the Channel ports and Normandy. Both sides agreed it would suffice, for now, and that was all that mattered.

Their host made his case to each of them for compensation for losses incurred during their fighting. His willingness to serve as surety for the peace treaty now seemed an obvious ploy to enrich himself. They both ignored his pleas, while nevertheless continuing to take advantage of his room and board, until finally he stalked out of his own dining hall in disgust.

After a tense dinner punctuated with outbursts of temper between the two groups of knights that had to be calmed, Richard and his men lingered over their wine, while Philip and his party withdrew. Richard knew better than to consider it a victory - Philip was simply choosing the terrain for the battle they would wage later that night. When he finally retired to his quarters, accompanied by several of his trusted retainers, he found Philip already waiting for him there.

"I decided I'd rather have the high ground," he said from his seat by the window, smiling serenely. 

Richard frowned. "Get out."

"Or what, you'll throw me down the stairs? I thought we might be able to talk. You do still remember how to do that, don't you, Richard? Or have your words deserted you like your knights at Fréteval?"

"Go on," Richard told his men. "Leave us." They did as they were told. The last of them, barely out of his youth and into manhood, staying longest before finally being driven away sullenly by a nod from his king.

"He's pretty," Philip said once they were alone at last. "Your new boy. What's his name, Roger? Have you given up on the minstrel, then?"

"I don't know who you mean," Richard said stiffly.

"The blond one with the sweet little pout," said Philip. "I hope whatever you're getting from him is worth the trouble he no doubt causes, obstinate brat. He's what, seventeen?"

"Eighteen," Richard said. "And his name is Robert."

"Good, so only twenty years your junior. That's not so bad," Philip said, mock-kindly. "You're not quite at Henry's level of debauchery yet."

"And how is your wife?" Richard changed the subject in his politest manner, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Philip paled, turning away. "I hear the lady Ingeborg is in good health," he said coldly.

"Haven't visited her prison lately, then?"

"It's a convent, not a prison, and she put herself there. Besides, the marriage was declared invalid. The bishops said so."

"You mean all your churchly friends and relatives who drew up that convenient family tree to prove you were related to her? Yes, I'm sure they would say so." Richard leaned back in his chair, toying with his knife. "But no new wife yet, even though you only have the one sickly little heir? I'm surprised any girl would say no to you, knowing how well you treated your last queen."

"It was a mistake. She should never have been crowned," Philip snapped, then calmed himself with a visible effort. "You are hardly one to speak about heirs - can you even remember the last time you were in the same room as Queen Berengaria? Rather difficult to produce a herd of little princes and princesses for you to quarrel with in your old age when you never perform your conjugal duties."

Richard grimaced. "There's hardly time for that when I spend months in the field, fighting you."

"Yes," said Philip. "I'm sure war is very convenient." He paused to drain the rest of his wine. "Alais is well," he added at last, "and so is her husband. They are expecting a child in the summer."

"So, marriage suits her," Richard said without much bitterness, only a sort of weary acceptance. He came to sit down across from the king of France, helping himself to some of the wine, offering more to Philip, who accepted with a nod. "Good. Better for her to be moved off the game board at last and get a young husband, some babies, and a bit of peace. Lord knows she earned it, putting up with my father for so many years." 

Philip nodded. "Yes, it must be such a relief to be a woman and have those things simply decided for you," he said dryly. "Well, unless you're Eleanor."

"Mother prefers to make the decisions for herself and all of her children as well, if she can get away with it," Richard told him, face as sour as if he'd just bitten into a lemon.

Philip nodded, unsurprised. "Still going strong, is she? I always said she'd bury us both."

"God's wounds, she'd wield the spade herself at this point," Richard said with what passed for a smile. Philip laughed and, faintly but perceptibly, the mood in the room lightened a little.

"You look well," Philip said at last. "War suits you."

"Better than captivity," Richard agreed, "for all you would have preferred to see me stay there. I'm curious, tell me - did you pay more to Leopold of Austria for me to stay in prison than you got from your Danish princess' dowry, or less? How much was my absence worth to you?"

Philip waved a hand airily. "Counting every sou is so bourgeois. Let's just say it was far beyond rubies, Richard, and leave it at that."

"Yes," Richard agreed. "I've seen your account books. The royal archives, which you so carelessly lost, have been very illuminating." He took from his pouch a seal bearing a fleur de lys.

Philip's face reddened - it was still a sore point that his baggage train had fallen into Richard's hands in the hasty retreat from Fréteval, including horses, plate, and coin, the records of the treasury, and the royal seal, which now dangled carelessly from Richard's fingers. Most crucially, however, it had also included his letters of agreement with the rebels within Richard's own forces. The loss had undermined months of careful planning, negotiation, and bribery. 

"Don't worry," Richard said, handing him back the seal. "I always knew I couldn't trust them. There are so few people one can, after all."

"Except us," said Philip, looking down at it with an unfathomable expression. "We have a certain trust, don't we? We can trust each other to plot and seize and retreat and fight back and never stay still long enough to catch hold of one another for more than a few moments..." He put his free hand out across the table and, as if unable to resist, Richard clasped it, squeezing it so tightly it hurt. "Do you ever imagine what things might be like if they didn't have to be like this?" Philip asked, searching Richard's face as though its stony facade might hold some sort of answer.

"What good does it do to imagine being something other than what we are?" Richard said, resigned. "If one or the other of us didn't wear a crown..."

"Feel free to give yours to John," Philip replied with a sly smile.

Richard laughed mirthlessly. "You'd despise me if I did. You'd think me weak. No, this is what we're stuck with, Philip. Take the few moments, or leave them, but don't cause yourself grief by dreaming of more." 

He stood to pull Philip closer, and the king allowed himself to be drawn in. They were not young and beautiful anymore, but worn with time and strain, grown older and stronger and crueler to match one another's cruelty and strength. And they were always and evermore weak to one another, their defenses undermined like the fortress walls at Vaudreuil, crumbling at the worst possible times.

"No struggling," Richard whispered against his ear, but Philip wasn't moved so easily as he had been at fifteen, and they grappled harder than they used to. The edge of pain cut through them, waking their dulled senses like lightning to gnarled oak. Their teeth clashed as they kissed, and Philip bit down on Richard's lip, making him snarl. 

"You'd despise me if I didn't," Philip told him, and hauled him down.

***

"It won't hold six months," Philip murmured across the table, as the herald reading the terms of the treaty droned on in Latin.

"Three if you're lucky," Richard agreed, and smiled to be back on familiar ground. 

"Will you stay until tomorrow? The archbishop is saying a Mass, I think probably for our souls."

Richard shook his head. "I can't. Taking the Host from our host would mean confessing my sins to him, and I don't imagine that would go over well."

"Nothing's a sin when you're king." Philip's expression was serene, regal, most thoroughly appropriate for a monarch, but Richard remembered it contorted and flushed and twisted with unholy pleasure.

"Is that so?" Richard gave him a dubious look. "Have you had yourself elected Pope now as well?" 

Philip's eyes twinkled as he tried, mostly successfully, not to laugh. "Ending my marriage once and for all would become much simpler, but it would make it rather difficult to pursue the next one."

At last the scribes set down their quills and the herald fell silent. With all eyes upon him, Richard pressed his royal seal to the treaty, imprinting his mark into the soft wax. Philip did likewise to his copy, using the seal Richard had returned to him the night before. If any of his courtiers noticed its remarkable reappearance, they had the good sense to keep silent.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [naryrising](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/naryrising) if you want to ask questions, make requests, or chat!


End file.
